


The Pack Survives

by KaisaSegher



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feels, First Time, Post S07E02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, R plus L equals J, Showverse, Unresolved Sexual Tension, au-ish, implied dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 06:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11640912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaisaSegher/pseuds/KaisaSegher
Summary: Bran arrives at Winterfell a few days after Tyrion's letter and just before Jon leaves to the south.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! So I was just toying with the idea of what would happen if roads in Westeros were an actual thing, and also if the show's timeline worked, just this once. Maybe a lot of pain could have been avoided.

Jon sank on his chair- their lord father’s chair. No, not anymore it seemed.

“No one can know about this” Sansa whispered, her hands shaking as she grasped the edge of her little brother’s chair, the sweat on her fingertips leaving dark spots on the old wood. “Do you hear me? No one can know.”

Though she knew they ought to be happy, overjoyed even, knowing Bran was alive and well at home now. But those words, those strange, senseless words that had passed through Bran’s lips… Was her brother mad? Had he ate something strange while he was beyond the wall? Had the Reed girl filled his head with absurd dreams?

“No one knows” Bran assured them, his face far more collected than those of the King and the Lady of Winterfell. Also, both of those not their titles anymore.

“I will summon the lords first thing in the morning” Jon mumbled, his body framed by the long shadows dancing around him, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“You can’t!” Sansa blurted out, kneeling in front of him and taking one of his hands before she could really consider it. He sighed, and then closed his long fingers around hers, gently stroking the back of her hand.

Somehow, just that, made her shiver.

“Sansa” he whispered, his grey eyes half hidden behind his heavy brow.

“No, listen to me. Just once, just this once, please” she begged, her heart drumming in her chest, her other brother- only brother- forgotten just across them. “No one can know, Jon. No one. We aren’t even sure if this is true.”

“Even if it is not, the North is Bran’s birth right.”

Gods, could he be any thicker? They were walking over thin ice, he couldn't just run away so soon and let everything shatter behind him. He could not just drop the news and then go. 

“It was my birth right just as well and that didn’t stop you” Sansa spat.

She knew what she was doing all too well. Poking where it hurt the most. Pulling at his greatest weakness. Reminding him of what he was. A bastard, and now not even from the right Stark. A son of a dead prince and a girl with no claim whatsoever over Winterfell. The northern lords had all ignored her with their shouts about not caring if he was “Ned Stark’s Bastard” and calling him “the King in the North”, because even though lord Eddard had fathered both of them, and Sansa had the legitimate claim and had made the right negotiations to free them from the Boltons, she had committed the greatest crime of them all: being born a woman.

But that awful letter from the south had arrived just before Bran, and Jon had already sent his answer to the Targaryen queen. He would go. The North was in her hands.

And now everything was upside down. Again. After so much work, so much worry, everything was about to shatter in their hands. 

Jon let go of her hand and jumped out of his seat, marching to the other side of the room. Sansa let her arms fall at her side and stood up. If they were going to discuss this they needed to be on the same level. King Jon might be, but she would never let him forget who knew better between the two of them. He had already made at least two very questionable decisions: facing Ramsay in the field and leaving Winterfell.

The one about sparring the children of traitors she could forgive. She had been a daughter and a sister of traitors. Jon had been right about that one. She could give him that much. 

“I can’t- I won’t!”

“Jon, listen, no one knows yet” Bran explained, his voice so much solemn than Sansa had expected. She recalled a wild little boy climbing towers, grunting at maester Luwin, complaining about baby Rickon. That was not him anymore. None of them were those children anymore. They were all dead.

“I can’t-“ Jon chocked, waving his hand in the air and looking around the room, as if he was searching for something. "It can't be true."

“Father loved mother very much. We all know he was an honourable man. We all know- even though it might have hurt you in the past and might hurt still- that it made no sense for him to betray her for someone else, and then bring the evidence of that slip for her to raise” she said, taking a few steps in his direction, like she was trying to catch a scared little rabbit.

“Sansa” Bran warned, widening his eyes.

“Oh, that’s all I am, then?” Jon scoffed, and now that she was closer she could see his eyes were red and moist. “The evidence of someone else’s crime?”

Sansa took the last steps keeping them apart and slowly, very slowly, brushed a stray curl from his face. The wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead seemed to ease somewhat, but he still seemed… Lost.

“You are so much more than that, Jon” she whispered, her breath itching on her throat as she spoke, her fingers shaking just as much as when she was holding that letter that told them Bran was alive.

Bran. They were not alone.

She decided to try a different approach to convince him to keep quiet.

“You are a king. And if you are going to meet Daenerys as you plan no one can know about what Bran said. No one can know your claim is void.”

“Also, what will happen if someone, especially her, finds out you are a Targaryen?" Bran reminded them. "An heir both to her house and the second most powerful one in Westeros?" 

Jon pursed his lips, and there it was. The lost look again.

"I'm none of those" Jon whispered, as if he could not manage to say it any louder. 

"You are. Or at least you have to be one of those for now." Sansa added, resting her hand on Jon's shoulder reassuringly as she looked at Bran. 

"Sansa is right. You should summon the lords tomorrow anyway, though. I will tell them I forfeit my rights in your favour” Bran announced, raising his hand to stop Jon from talking. “We have no choice, Jon. We either keep quiet and you go to her or tell the lords you are not father’s son and you let me go myself. Even if we keep quiet about who your father was I doubt Daenerys would wish to negotiate with someone less than a king, as you said.”

Jon frowned.

They had him trapped.

“I guess either way I do what you want, don’t I?” he tried, his low voice reverberating on the stone walls.

“I think you are forgetting we lose either way. Just like you” Sansa hissed, turning away from him and taking a chair by the fire, next to Bran.

She still didn't like the idea of Jon leaving home one bit. Even less to go to a dragon’s nest, to a rival queen. It was stupid, to say the least.

“And where does Bran belong, in your plan?” Jon asked, taking his chair again.

“Our plan, if there is one” Bran corrected. “I will stay here, with Sansa. She will rule in your stead, like you told the lords, and we will tell everyone that I am still learning, that my upbringing was too… unconventional, for me to manage just yet.”

Jon nodded, his arms resting on his knees, leaning forward towards his brother.

Cousin.

Brother, anyway. Everyone needed to believe that.

Sansa’s heart drummed against her ribs while she begged with all her might that Jon did not do something reckless. Like father or Robb had done. Doing what was right was not always the right thing to do.

“I will name you my heir.” Bran opened his mouth, and so did Sansa, but Jon just straightened his back and that was enough to keep them quiet. “No, if I am to agree with this you should listen. If something happens to me-“

“Don’t say that! You see, that is exactly why you shouldn’t go!” Sansa argued.

“Listen” Jon demanded, his tone dangerously calm, and Sansa knew it was time to obey him. “That part we already discussed and I am not going to have the same fight again. I go, you both stay. Sansa shall be known as Princess Regent, and Bran will be my heir. If something happens to me, Sansa is to rule until Bran’s twentieth nameday.”

The cracking of the fire did little to ease the heavy silence that fell over their heads.

They had to be grateful. Their brother had come back, as safe and as sound as possible. Step by step they were rebuilding their home, together. And yet everything had changed without changing at all.

He was still leaving.

“Is this something we can all agree with?” Jon asked, reaching for Bran’s hand, a sad smile on his lips. “Also, if I name Bran my heir instead of you, Sansa, I guess _he_ has no reason to stay. He can’t get his claws on the North through you and he is too clever to stay if he has nothing to gain.”

Poor Jon. Poor innocent Jon.

He knew nothing about Baelish. Nothing at all. He didn’t float around her because of her claim, her titles, her family name. It was because she looked like his dear Cat. That was another of Sansa’s sins, having her lady mother’s looks. Sometimes she had even found herself wishing people didn’t say so often how much they looked alike. There had been a time when she had been proud of it. Now it was just a burden.

And Baelish would not go away. And she couldn’t just push him and all the Knights of the Vale away.

Finally, Bran nodded. Then Jon looked at Sansa, and that weak smile he had worn just a blink on an eye before was gone. Just a heavy frown. She felt better when he smiled at her. Even when he was angry he smiled at her. But now he wasn’t.

She nodded as well, resting her face on her fist and looking at the fire.

She didn’t want them to see her as weak. Never again.

* * *

Sansa had not expected to see or hear that. She was just trying to find some peace, her head spinning around with terrible ideas of how anything could turn up for the worst with Jon away.

The lords had taken the news quite well, and somehow that made her glad. It was one issue less troubling her mind.

And then Jon had brought Ghost to her, and had told the wolf to always stay by her side and protect her as if she was his true mistress. She had actually thrown her arms around Jon’s neck and held him tightly against her, the scent of burned wood and soap on his hair warming her nostrils as her tears wetted his cheek.

He was part of her now, and he was leaving. And no one could know. No one would know. 

She had stopped by her lord father’s statue and had left a blue winter rose at his feet. Wherever he was now, he should be ashamed of her. His perfect little daughter, no more than a frivolous girl tricked again and again by those around her. Sold twice by someone else and then herself to a man Lord Eddard loathed just to get back what she had lost in the first place. If she had never told her lady mother she wanted to marry Joffrey none of this would have happened.

At least there was Jon and Bran. Surely Lord Eddard could be proud of _them_. Jon was a good king, and one day Bran would too. And she would just stay there, in the back, ignored by both of them and their men. A figure in the shadows, trying to hold everything together as it pulled apart at the seams. 

No, she had not been fair. Jon had listened to her. And so did Bran. And the North would be hers, soon.

But she didn’t want it. Not like this.

She had heard the heavy steps on the old stones, and she had had no wish to speak with someone else, so she had stayed in the shadows, behind grandfather’s tomb. And then she had heard their voices, mostly Baelish’s, and how he had played all his cards to make Jon lose control, and nothing had quite done it.

I love Sansa, as I loved her mother.

Those had been the words to break him.

Out of everything Baelish had said to Jon, about his dead brothers, about how her lady mother hated him, those words had finally pushed him to do something stupid.

They were gone, and she leaned against the wall, her hand on her chest, short of breath.

Gods, what was Jon thinking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid it's not too much but I'll try to update as soon as possible while I keep on biting my nails and grasping every last bit of hope left.  
> Thank you all so much for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know Ep.3 happened so from now on this is pretty much AU since the end of Ep.2, okay? Because roads and timelines don't work on tv, it seems. I'm sorry, still too many feels about it.  
> Enjoy!

The girl was kind to Bran, and she seemed witty enough, something Sansa more than welcomed those days. Strong too.

Good.

They needed strong women for what was to come. Not just fierce warriors like Brienne or Lyanna Mormont. Women who could do what needed to be done when men could not or lacked the guts. According to Bran, Meera had slit her own brother’s throat to spare him any more suffering after one of the Others had wounded him.

Now that Sansa wondered about it, was she the only Stark left that hadn’t set their eyes on a wight?

She shook her head. If she had a say in the matter that was something she wouldn’t mind  _not_ seeing before she died.

The three of them set by the fire enjoying the last bits of the evening before sleep. Meera had her elbow on the arm of her chair, her head falling against her palm as her eyes got heavier with each breath. Bran was reading one of his favourite books as a child for them, the tale of a great knight who went on a quest to find a magical potion to cure the plague and faced all sort of perils. It was a childish story, but they all needed something like that before Jon left in the morning. Something to make them grasp the hope of better, more tranquil days. And Bran seemed just as terrified as Sansa, even though he hid behind enigmatic words and looks into the distance. 

What would become of them? Would she be awarded the same respect as Jon had? Perhaps she should just step aside for Bran. Perhaps that was the best option. There was a hierarchy, an order to establish those sorts of matters. But the world had changed. A king's mother sat on the Iron Throne, a foreign girl called herself queen of the Seven Kingdoms and a bastard was King in the North. 

They lived in a different world now. And perhaps all that became normal once the dead marched for them. 

When Jon or Bran had made their announcements it had seemed like the Northemen agreed. They were honourable people, but she could not forget- and so couldn’t them- that Sansa had suggested the execution of the traitors’ children. It had been unfair of her, but so had Joffrey after Robb’s rebellion.

And Jon had asked her if she thought _he_ was Joffrey. 

A sad smile played on her lips. She had promised herself to never become like them, but somewhere along the way she had lost the sense of what was right or wrong. She just wanted to protect the two people she loved the most on this world. The two people she had left. The gods knew she hated Cersei with all her might but Sansa could start to see where some of her actions came from. It was a dark place, deep inside, that made you act and think without proper reason. Made you think about more than just you. Made you weak.

Baelish was a master of cunning, but he could be very irrational just as well. She already knew some of the strings she could pull to make him do what she wanted. That had brought Winterfell to the Starks again. That had kept Jon alive. And now it would have to keep Bran too.

But if Baelish had found that weakness inside of them she had to keep him away from Jon. Now, more than ever, taking the king out of Baelish's way was on everyone’s best interest. Everyone that mattered, at least. And perhaps, somehow, Jon would be safer away from home.

Or that was a lie she kept telling herself to let him go.

“You are going to hurt your eyes like that, Sansa” Bran said, interrupting his reading.

She cut the light blue thread and put her scissors down.

“And so will you, brother” she reminded him, reaching for the candle behind her and lighting it by the fire. “Lady Meera won’t, at least. Wouldn’t you rather retire to your chambers, my lady?”

The girl blinked and after a long sigh straightened her back, blushing furiously.

“I- I am sorry, lady Sansa. I’m afraid it’s been a long day” Meera apologized, her eyes puffy and her face swollen.

Sansa smiled, holding out the piece in front of her, trying to find even the tiniest flaw. She would spot it from miles away if she noticed it was there. It drove her mad, seeing a clumsy stich, an uneven hem. There were things in life one could control. And she might as well do her best.

“Ah, they’re here!” the giant, red-bearded man by the door shouted out over his shoulder and then took two powerful strikes so he could stand behind Bran’s chair. “Don’t you think it’s too late, hey? The lass here looks like she could get some sleep.”

Meera covered her mouth to hide another yawn.

Poor girl. She had taken upon herself a heavy burden, protecting the Three-Eyed Raven.

Whatever that meant. 

But protecting and taking care of Bran all those years and all alone could not have been an easy task. Meera deserved so much more than their gratitude and respect. And she was another welcome face to have around. Winter was here, they had to keep their friends with them to face what was coming.

Their enemies, on the other hand-

“I would like to retire as well” Bran added, closing his book.

“I can take you” Jon offered, appearing right beside Tormund.

Sansa’s heart jumped to her throat.

“Nah, I’ll take the lad! Don’t worry, lord, I think you and the lady need to talk, with you going away tomorrow and all” the wildling suggested, his large hand resting on Jon's comparatively frail shoulder.

Jon nodded.

Soon enough the three of them had said their goodnights and were gone.

"Bran must miss Hodor very much.  He doesn't speak about it, though" Jon said, taking the chair in front of her and stretching out his hands to the fire. Sansa didn’t know what to say to that. Bran didn’t talk about a great deal of things now. "You were sewing again?"

She looked at Jon’s hands, half-blue with the cold. Could he burn? They said the Targaryen queen couldn't. But Jon was no Targaryen. He would never be. Even if they offered him the Iron Throne because of it he would never become one of them. He looked more like those statues on the crypts than she ever did or would ever look. Sansa hadn’t lied when she told him he was a Stark too her.

Though now she wished she had never uttered those words.

"In spite of what lady Lyanna said I do plan on knitting by the fire while men fight for us” she said, a smile on her face as she looked at him. Lady Lyanna meant well, but she was a girl. A girl’s beliefs had nothing to do with the real world. “Soldiers need to be kept warm, even more if what's coming is what we all fear."

Jon grasped the edge of the leather piece she had on her lap, running his index finger over the leather. 

"I don’t know much about stitching, but this looks too fine for war" he mumbled, raising his eyes to her and returning Sansa’s grin.

Even just that made funny things to her belly.

Now even more.

"No, this one is for you" she explained, cutting a small misplaced dark blue thread with her teeth and shaking the jerkin off, so she could take another proper look at it.

It might be one of her finest works.

"So she doesn't forget who I am or so I look my part?" he jested, and now his smile was full.

"You look the part every day, Jon." She rested her hand on his knee on what she hoped would be a reassuring fashion.

His eyes roamed from her face, to her shoulder, down her arm and then to her hand. His smile was gone.

Sansa cleared her throat.

"Well, can you try it on, please?” she asked, taking her hand away like it scorched and changing the subject. “I want to have it ready by tomorrow, but I'm not sure it will fit."

Jon nodded and stood up promptly, perhaps a little too eager to put some distance between them. Without a word, he started to undo the buttons of his doublet, and for some reason Sansa felt her face burn. She should turn away, at least. But he hadn't asked her to.

So she didn't, her eyes fixed on his long fingers twitching the silvery buttons between the black leather. She discretely dried her palms on her skirts and wetted her suddenly dry lips.

She had something to do, she couldn’t distract herself. She stood up, the new jerkin in her hands as she went around Jon.

He waited for her to hold the sleeves for him after he had stripped down to his shirt.

"The last one you made me fitted perfectly, Sansa" he mumbled, a slightly annoyed tone on his voice. He hated when she made him stand still while she readjusted his clothes. But he was king now, and a king couldn’t have a shirt twice his size like it was handed down from one of his older brothers. "And can you see anything with this light?"

"I can. And I know that one was perfect, but you are not as skinny now that you're a king and all" she retorted, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders.

Jon laughed loudly as he readjusted the sleeves before she could tell him to do so. Sansa run her hands over the jerkin, trying to find any wrinkle, any loose stich, anything out of place. It was a little too long for him.

She always made his clothes with just enough fabric. These were hard times, she couldn’t just waste away the materials. But this one was special, and it would look better if she cut out what she needed to than if she added more fabric afterwards.

Sansa took a handful of pins and held them with her teeth, her fingers reaching for the hem of Jon’s jerkin and folding it up until where she thought it would look best.

"I was never skinny" he jested, turning his head to the side, trying to face her.

"Keep still or I'll pinch you!" Sansa shouted, taking a pin from between her teeth and sticking it on the leather. "Would you rather I told you you are fatter?"

"I am not!"

She giggled, and gave the waist of the piece one final push before facing him again. It looked perfect.

"Do I look more king-in-the-north-ly now?" Jon asked, as she readjusted his collar.

She didn't answer, though, catching sight of a white mark on his chest, right where his shirt had opened a little bit while he undressed. She had not seen it before. But she had never seen him shirtless. He always kept his undershirt firmly closed while she fitted his clothes.

"Sansa?” he insisted, raising his eyebrows. “That bad?”

"You always look kingly, as long as it isn't you choosing what you put on" she said. Then her fingers reached for the tiny scar. "What's this?"

Jon looked to the ceiling, taking in a long breath.

"A scar” he mumbled. “One of them."

"You have more?"

She left the pins on the small table next to them, letting her arms fall to her sides.

"Aye, a great deal more, but I don't want to talk about it" he almost spat. "Can I take this off already?" 

Sansa nodded as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She knew what had happened to him. The tragic tale of how his brothers had betrayed him in such a terrible way. Of Jon dying alone and unloved.

But she had never seen the proof of it. Not quite.

Sansa took a few steps away from Jon and turned his back to him.

"I don't want to burden you with those thoughts, that's all" his low voice echoed behind her.

Why was he always trying to protect her? She was not just some frail girl. Not anymore, at least. She had seen quite enough on this life already. 

She let the shoulders of her dress fall down until the top of it gathered at her waist, closing her arms firmly around her chest.

Silence.

A ghost of a touch over her shoulder blade. Then it was gone and she felt empty. Alone. Like it was happening all over again, those nights she had cried herself to sleep and no one would care.

Someone cared. Many people cared now.

"He did this to me” she said, her voice thinner than the thread she used to embroider her stockings. “Once, when I resisted too much for his taste."

"Sansa" Jon whispered, and then his fingers traced the scar that went across her back, making her shiver. "I'm so sorry. I wish I came for you sooner." 

Her heart clenched as she arched her back away from his touch. She slid her arms down the sleeves and tied her bodice again, tears pooling in her eyes. When she turned around she would have gathered her courage again.

Jon hadn't. There it was, the heavy browed look again.

"You see, you could never burden me, Jon” she said, smoothing her skirts so as to avoid his eyes. “That was a real burden. You are not. You could never be." 

He still said nothing, but both his fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his body stiff as a bowstring before the shot.

"Though you worry me" she added, taking a step towards him.

"We've discussed this. I have to go" he huffed as he took off the jerkin and placed it carefully on her hands again.

Sansa folded his gift into her sewing basket. She would have to work a good part of the night if she intended to have it ready by morning.

He would be gone in the morning.

She took a deep breath. She could say the words. She could speak them.

"I saw you in the crypts. With Baelish."

"Then you heard what he said about you" Jon scoffed, his face scrunched now, his eyes red with rage.

She had seen that same face too well. The time he almost killed Ramsay with his own hands. Not killing him there had been the most precious gift he could have offered her. 

"I heard well enough. And so did he. That was a stupid thing to do" she scolded, leaning down to collect some chunks of thread on her chair. She couldn't bear to look at him when she said it. "Do you think he doesn't know by now that those are not just brotherly feelings?"

Silence again.

Nothing, no word.

Just his heavy breathing around her, mixed with the gentle cracking from the hearth.

He wasn't even trying to deny it. 

"Do you think I want this?" he roared, crossing the room to the other side in a handful of powerful strides, as far away from her as possible. "You are my sister, Sansa. And I am sick. Disgusting."

Sansa tucked a stray hair furiously behind her ear. 

"I just showed you what sick and disgusting truly looks like. That is not you." She straightened her back, looking him dead in the eye. She had faced worse demons. She could face this one too. "I am not your sister."

"You were" he almost whimpered, throwing his hands in the air. "A man can- A man _must_ love his sister. What a man can't do is-"

"Desire her?" Sansa cut him, raising an eyebrow and waving her hand around, almost dismissively.

He let his shoulders fall. She had defeated him.

Why winning an argument with Jon didn't feel good?

"That’s not what I meant, Jon. That is not the problem. You are not sick” she said, her feet moving almost to their own accord until she was close enough to stroke his cheek. But she didn't. “The problem is that now _he_ knows. And you know what he did to Lysa when she got in the way."

“It's not just lust, Sansa" he blurted out, finally looking at her. "Lust is easier to forget. To ignore. At first I thought it was because you had never been my sister." 

Sansa forced a smile, reaching for his hand. He didn't fight her but didn't took it either. 

"We were siblings for just some scarce moons. You don't have to beat yourself about it" she tried to appease him.

"When I thought about his filthy hands on you-" he tried, his voice failing as he finally curled his hand around hers. 

Sansa gave a long sigh. 

"You wanted to protect me. And I am just trying to protect you" she explained. 

"I thought you had said no one could protect anyone" he joked, looking at her almost through his lashes, a wide grin on his face. 

He was so beautiful. Even when he was brooding as he often did as a boy. Even more when he laughed. But those were such rare moments.

"I know I did. But I guess we've been doing just that ever since we met again, at Castle Black" she said, shrugging.

Sansa had been a fool as a child, hoping too much. She had learnt, with Jon, that hoping for nothing as a woman could be just as foolish.

"And I'm just trying to protect you now. I don't want him to hurt you" Sansa confessed.

She had expected him to laugh at her. To tell her she was naive, believing a man like Jon needed someone like her to take care of him. She was not Brienne, nor Lyanna, nor Arya. The best she could offer him was a jerkin to protect him from the wind, her loyalty, her trust and her blessing before he left. She had no sword, no shield, no suit of armour. She just had her heart and her prayers, and she wasn't praying too much lately. But it had to be enough.

He didn't laugh at her, though. Instead, Jon took a step back and drew his shirt over his head before Sansa could blink.

Her eyes roamed down his flawless scared torso, not sure what impressed her more.

They had been too cruel. That blow over his heart might have been enough. But there were dozens of them, scattered over his chest, his stomach, over his hip, under his collarbone. And it was one thing to fit his clothes. Noticing- seeing his lean and defined body, his pale skin scattered with freckles here and there... That was another matter entirely.

"That look on your face is exactly why I didn't want you to know" Jon chewed, shaking his shirt to unwrap it. 

"Jon, stop" she almost begged, grabbing his wrist. "It's not out of pity, I swear" 

Jon looked away, frowning. 

"I know we weren't there for each other before. I know we can't erase these marks. They will be with us, forever" Sansa said, stroking his beard with her free hand. It was so soft, gently tickling her palm. "But we can be here now. We can protect each other now." 

"I just wanted to protect you from him" he said, leaning against her hand. 

Her heart was about to shot out from her mouth. She swallowed thickly. 

He would be gone in the morning. 

"Kiss me" she said, resting the hand she had on his wrist on his chest, over his beating heart. 

He blinked. Twice.

"Sansa..."

But he didn't move. Not even an inch.

"No one can know about this. But we can be truthful to each other, at least" Sansa said, though her voice was not as steady as she had wished. "I don't want to pretend around you. So kiss me. Please."

"You didn't have to beg."

Sansa found herself pressed between Jon's warm body and the cold wall, his demanding lips stealing the breath from her lungs. She sighed against his mouth, her fingers tangling in his soft curls as she pulled him even harder against her. The shirt balled in his fist slid gently to her feet, forgotten, petty as it was, as Jon's tongue found hers and she couldn't help the low moan that echoed through his mouth.

He would be gone in the morning. They might as well have this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos... <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a little longer because I took too much to update. Unfortunately now some things are OOC because I wasn't expecting Bran to be like that. Also, I am aware the timeline is a little f-up. So bear in mind: Bran arrived at Winterfell after Jon announced he would go south but before he actually went (like a couple of days) and the scene in the crypts takes places on the eve of Jon's departure.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

There was a hint of bitter ale on his tongue, but not even the best lemoncakes she had ever had could taste so sweet. Jon’s rough beard tickled her skin, his strong hands frustratingly still at each side of her head, supporting his weight and avoiding that his body so much as brushed against hers. Sansa’s fingers roamed through his curls, a satisfied sigh from Jon as he sucked on her lower lip and almost made her forget her own name.

Sansa had kissed men before. She had used her lips to buy what she needed from them. Her lord father’s life. Her freedom. Her way back home. Some rest from the whip. Sometimes she had gotten what she had bought. Others she hadn’t.

This time she was not buying anything, just stealing. Stealing some fleeting moments she could recall on cold nights while she worried about Jon’s safety. It made her heart ache, but not out of sorrow. It made her shiver, even though her blood was burning her from the inside. It made her lower her hands down Jon’s back and discover if the lean, taught muscles on his back felt just as smooth as they seemed.

And it made her long for things she had thought she could never desire.

Jon rested his cheek against hers, his short warm breaths tingling the small hairs on the back of her neck. Sansa run her hand up and down his spine, resting her chin on his shoulder as she recovered from the kiss. If she had that kind of power she would issue a decree stating he would always stay like that.

So this was what other girls- happy, light-hearted girls- giggled and blushed about. She almost laughed, picturing Meera, Lyanna, Brienne and her sitting by the fire, sewing or reading or brushing each other’s hair as Sansa bragged about how truly skilful the King in the North was when it came to kissing. Or perhaps that was a matter of state and she should bring it to the next council meeting. Ser Davos would be appalled, Tormund would break Jon’s back with a tremendous cheerful slap. Baelish would choke. Perhaps he would choke to death.

That was quite a beautiful picture to paint.

But those girls were not them. And these were not their times.

“You're good at this, you know” she whispered, and she felt her face burn. What a silly thing to say!

But he didn’t laugh at her. He never did, and he never called her stupid, not even when she interrupted him in front of the lords to contradict him. Jon was not like the others. Neither was Ser Davos, or Tormund. There were good men on this world, after all. Different from those the songs liked to mention, though, or maybe she had been listening to the wrongs songs all along. Men with kind hearts, men with a sense of what was right and wrong. Fate had just played a cruel trick on her for some time, making her cross paths with the worst specimens.

Fate was still playing tricks on her. On them both. But she would cheat it as much and for as long as she could.

“I haven’t practiced much lately” Jon said, nuzzling her cheek with his cold nose.

Her fingers traced the harsher wrinkled flesh of the tiny scars on his back as well. What had they done to them? What had they done so wrong as children to deserve this? Girls… Girls dreamt about pretty princes all the time, except most of them hadn’t the chance to actually become their betrotheds and break their family apart. She had just wanted to make her lord father and her lady mother proud. What better husband could she find than a king?

Sansa smirked, thinking about the irony of it all.

But Jon, above all people, didn’t deserve what they had done to him. He couldn’t just leave the Free Folk to die north of the Wall. And yet, just like Ned Stark- the man whom, for all purposes, had been his father- doing the right thing had been his death sentence.

No, there was nothing just about fate. Nothing, when after moons of anguish and feeling guilty and sick and wretched for wanting her brother they found out just a couple of days before his departure that he wasn’t her father’s son. What a cruel trick to play, indeed.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his. Jon was so warm and solid against her. He could stay right there forever, if she had what she wanted for once. Just this once.

She dug her fingers in his curls again, thinking about all those times she had seen him in the Great Hall or training in the yard, with that little knot on the top of his head, and thought about untying it and comb his hair with her hand. The feeling of his thick strands brushing against her skin. But nothing she had imagine in her head came close to this.

“Sansa” he croaked, his heart beating strongly against her bodice as he levered his face with hers again. For a man that had been dead he seemed alive enough to her. “Can I touch you?”

She frowned, harshly brought back to reality and reminded of Jon’s hands still on the wall.

“Oh, Jon, you don’t have to ask!” she assured him, taking his wrist and kissing the palm of his hand. Was this the same Jon that had pinned Baelish to the wall with nothing but his gloved hand without so much as a blink of an eye? “Just because you go around threatening people not to do it that doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“So you heard that bit too.” He chuckled, but there was a nervous smile on his lips, his eyes still half-closed.

“I did. I heard quite a lot” she said, lowering his large hand to her waist. “Right there, that’s fine.”

Jon spread his fingers on the small of her back, his brow furrowed as he searched her face for any sign that he should stop. Sansa closed her eyes and pulled him by the neck to her lips. He grunted, taken by surprised, but soon enough his arm went around her and pulled her flush against him. She could feel the warmth of his body through her thick dress, the small jolts up her spine as he drew lazy circles on the small of her back, holding her against him as if he could keep her there forever.

That was so much better.

Sansa sucked on his lower lip, and this time Jon tangled his free hand on her hair, probably messing her braids, but she couldn’t care less. There it was, the passion she had seen before, the fire that lived inside him, not only out of jealously or the need to protect a broken thing.

“I want to ask if I can, though” he said, tucking a now stray hair behind her ear. “I don’t want to scare you, Sansa.”

“You won’t” she declared, cupping his cheek, her heart swelling in her chest. How could such gentleness live inside him still? Inside them both? They had both been beaten and bruised until nothing but a shapeless mass remained of the hopeful children that had left home all those years ago. And somehow those shambles had turned to something as sturdy as the stone wall on her back. “Scare me, I mean. You are not them, Jon. It’s alright.”

Jon nodded, slowly moving forward and pressing his lips to her jaw, his hand cupping her cheek to hold her in place. Sansa closed her eyes and tilted her head away from him, exposing her neck and he took the hint well enough, planting a wet kiss on her pulse and then gently sucking it.

“Jon” she gasped, digging her nails on the back of his neck, earning herself something reminiscent of a growl, ringing through her throat and down her chest as if it came from her own mouth.

“Is this good?” he asked, looking up as his fingertips lazily traced Sansa’s collarbone.

She felt her face scorch. It was Jon. The bastard brother she had ignored all her life until he was the only one left for her. The partner she had imagined kissing every time he looked at her with his brow furrowed with concern and slightly pouty lips.

Those lips were just too perfect to ignore. She had tried so hard to overlook them. And how gentle he was with her, and how he listened to her and trusted her. She had told herself a thousand times it was just brotherly love, that she was imagining it all in her head. That she was so broken that she thought any man half decent towards her had to be in love with her.

But it was Jon, and he had put that perfect mouth of his to good use and still asked if it felt good.

She nodded, her tongue stuck inside her mouth.

He continued his path along her collarbone, his fingers tickling her skin before his lips kissed and then his tongue licked at her, until Sansa’s legs were so weak she had to lean against the wall for support. Her body was set aflame, her head as if floating above her, and yet her bodice was too constricting, almost painfully so, and there was this deep ache down in her belly, a longing for more, as if all that Jon had given her was still not nearly enough.

“Jon” she called again, not sure if she really expected some sort of response or to bring some air to her lungs.

Jon chuckled.

“It almost sounds like a pretty name when you say it.”

“It _is_ a pretty name” she corrected him as he traced the edge of her neckline. Her dress was definitely too tight, now. “Jon, please.”

He stopped, his hand on Sansa’s waist pulling her away from him. He looked her in the eyes, his brows knit. Again.

“Is something wrong?”

Sansa caught his right hand on hers, her eyes never leaving his for a moment. She wanted him to know it was all right. That she was not scared. That she wanted it. That she _needed_ it. Sansa closed his fingers around the tip of the simple bow that held the front of her dress together.

“Please, Jon” she panted, and she found that all form of coherent speech had abandoned her.

“Whatever you want, Sansa. Anything” Jon vowed, his gaze steady as when he had said the lords he would go south. “Tell me.”

She took a long breath. The hearth casted long shadows on the floor, reminding her of the ghosts she had imagined inhabited the castle now. She was not one of them, though. Not anymore.

“I- I- There’s this… It hurts. Please.”

And she was supposed to be the articulate one.

“Shh… I know, love, I know” he said, a half smile on his face as he held the back of her head and brought her closer to him, burying his face on her hair. Sansa shuddered, though she could not be sure if it had been due to the tenderness of the gesture, reminding her of when they had met at Castle Black, or his choice of words.

She sighed against his neck, her fist still trapped between them and closed around his fingers.

“Do you want me to make it better?” he whispered on her ear, and her throat went dry.

What could she say to that? What was the right answer? The truth and something not silly. Not stupid.

“Please” she begged again, this time pulling his hand down and the string of her dress with it.

Jon watched intently as the strings fell apart, Sansa’s chest heaving as the grey wool folded down with nothing to hold it together anymore.

“Sansa, you’ll tell me if something’s wrong, aye?” he asked, parting from her again to allow them both more room, his dark eyes darting from her face to her chest as he hooked his fingers on the strings to unlace them.

She gave a long sigh, nodding almost imperceptibly. When Jon was done he slipped his hands under both shoulders of her dress, and asked for permission again.

She gulped. She had wanted this for so long… Her mind couldn’t wrap itself around the idea it was real. That Jon wouldn't fade away if she blinked.

Sansa nodded again.

He slid the sleeves down her arms, just like she herself had done to show him the scars on her back, his fingers tickling her skin on their way and sending shivers down her spine.

“I thought ladies wore fancy shifts under their dresses” he babbled, his eyes wide as he looked at her bare breasts, an endearing flush rising from his shoulders up his neck.

“Seen many naked ladies lately, have you?” she spurt out, regretting it the next instant. She didn’t want to know. “Would you rather I did?”

She could hear the fire crackling as the winds howled outside. Another snow storm, the tenth in a fortnight.

Jon’s mouth hung open long enough for it to become amusing. And then it was his time to gulp.

“It’s perfect” he finally answered, his hand reaching for her waist again as he searched her face for permission.

Sansa gave him another short nod. She wouldn’t say no to him. She couldn’t.

She didn’t want to.

Painfully slow, Jon’s fingers traced the edge of her ribcage from one side to the other, his gaze upon her too heavy to hold anymore and making Sansa screw her eyes shut as his hand reached the lower side of her breast, hesitating there.

“It’s all right, Jon.”

His large, warm hand gently cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing her skin. Sansa panted, arching her back against his touch, eager for more, her heart hammering her ribs insistently. That had only worsened the growing ache between her thighs.

Jon traced her shoulder with his tongue, his thumb finally finding her nipple and forcing a low moan from her mouth.

“Is this good, then?” he whispered against her skin.

“Yes” she gasped. “Very much.”

Jon’s kisses traced the length of her collarbone, then down her breastbone as his fingers kept on teasing her almost painfully hard nipple. Gods, ‘good’ didn’t even begin to describe it!

It made her angry, angry at the cruel fate that had made them waste all that precious time. They could have been doing this for moons now, instead of burying all this hunger under layers of duty and guilt. She could have kissed Jon at least a thousand-

“Oh!” she cried out, tangling her fingers in Jon’s curls as she felt his wet tongue replace his fingers.

She kept her eyes open, admiring the way the muscles on his back rippled as he kissed her breast like he had kissed her mouth, the shadows cast by the candles and the hearth painting flickering patterns on his skin.

She considered telling him to lay down on his stomach and explore his back the same way his lips were discovering her body. It would be lovely, to spend the night tracing every scar, every freckle, every edge of every muscle. But her mind was getting foggy, and now she could feel a wetness dampening her smallclothes.

“Don’t stop” she demanded when he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

“Aye, I don’t intend to, but I was thinking-” he started, raising up so they were levelled again. His eyes were almost black now, his lips swollen, his hair a complete mess. And he never looked more handsome, not even with the best furs on his back or his hair perfectly tied on the back of his head. “I don’t know if you- I mean, there is something else I think you might like.”

His lips brushed against hers for a heartbeat, and then Jon took a step back.

No. No, no, no. He couldn’t leave her like that. What else was there to like? This was perfectly fine. He couldn't just stop.

Could he?

Before she had the chance to protest Jon was kneeling on the floor, before her.

“What are you-?“

Jon caught the hem of her dress, his eyes finding hers again. She allowed it. She would allow him anything he asked of her.

He pulled her skirt up slowly, his fingertips brushing tenderly against her flesh as he planted small kisses over her black stockings.

“These seem nice” he commented, twisting the silvery ribbon at her mid-thigh between his fingers.

“That’s because they are” she retorted, a slight tone of annoyance in her voice. They were her best pair, one of the few luxuries she had indulged herself in since they had gotten their home back. “Do you like them?”

Jon seemed to consider it for a while, his hand running up and down her calve.

“Aye.”

He kissed her skin right above the trim, a sweet smile on his lips, no traces of that forlorn look he wore so often as he continued leaving soft pecks up her thigh, lifting her heavy skirts higher and higher.

Sansa had scars there too. Shorter and thinner. Like fingernails. Like drops of wax. She had considered warning Jon about them, but she wouldn’t allow that dog to tarnish their happiness. To stain her still. There was only her and Jon in that room. No one else. And even though Jon must have noticed the marks he said nothing. Because it didn’t matter. It truly didn’t matter.

They once had been broken pieces, but not anymore. They were whole. They were together. The two of them could have been good on their own. Jon was quite the leader, respected by his men, smart enough, however too kind for his own good. And she had been clever enough to win their people’s love and respect, despite the two changes of houses she had been forced to endure.

Together they had reconquered that land. Fed the people. Washed away the filth that lingered on the stones. Together they had built a kingdom.

Jon stopped, leaning back, her skirts hiked up to her hips and balled in his fist.

For a while he just stood like that, on his knees, in front of her, looking straight ahead.

“I know those are nice too” she tried to joke, her mouth dry as her blood rang on her ears. Her palms were sweaty again, as she held them flat against the wall, trying not to fall down. “But I think you’re supposed to take them off. You _can_ take them off.”

Jon gulped but made no attempt to move. She took her skirts from his hand and bunched them further up, trying to extract some form of reaction from him. Anything really.

“Thank you” he said, and for an instant, as he hooked his fingers on the silk edge, she thought he was going to rip her smallclothes to shreds, the same fire she had seen just moments ago dancing in his eyes. She was somewhat disappointed when he just dragged her smallclothes down her legs, the gentle scrape of his short fingernails giving her gooseflesh as the cool air of the room hit her skin. When he reached her feet Sansa took a step out of her smallclothes and then she was almost naked, if not for the dress gathered at her belly and her stockings and boots.

In the most unladylike fashion. In front of Jon.

But it didn’t matter. Not one bit.

Jon run his hands up and down the sides of her thighs, leaning forward to kiss her belly. Sansa huddled her skirts on just one hand, the other reaching for him and letting his beard caress her palm as he went further down, licking around her navel and making her muscles flutter under his tongue.

His eyes were shut, his face as peaceful as she had never seen it before, covering her skin with kisses as if he wanted his lips to learn all the curves and slopes of her body. She would show them to him. All night, if she could. Every night, if the gods were so kind.

He took hold of her wrist, placed her hand on his shoulder and then gave a gentle pull to the back of her knee. Sansa raised it, not exactly sure what for, supporting her weight on her other foot and on his body as he laid her leg over his other shoulder.

She frowned. She knew little about what people did in their intimacy, when they really wanted it. Clearly what scarce knowledge she had was insufficient. But she wouldn’t speak. She wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t spoil it.

Jon rewarded her patience with gentle nips on her inner thigh first, then easing each spot with his wet tongue. Sansa threw her head back against the wall, her lips parted as she gasped for air, his own mouth closer to the apex of her thighs with each heartbeat.

But still she needed more, so much more.

Jon’s tongue found her folds, and a loud moan echoed through the stones as she dug her nails on his skin, marvelling at the feel of his solid shoulders under her touch. At least there was something she could hold on to while he drove her mad.

Sansa bucked her hips against his face, as if to guide him where she needed him the most, but a strong hand held her in place against the wall. Jon’s mouth seemed to miss that particular spot on purpose, sucking on her lips instead, his teeth carefully scraping the tender flesh there, and pushing all form of coherent thought out of her mind. Just moans and gasps and the feel of Jon’s mouth on her.

“Jon” she pleaded, under her breath.

He was not a cruel man, but he chuckled nevertheless, perhaps proud of himself. Proud of what he was doing to her. His fingers parted her folds and his lips closed around her nub, his tongue teasing it as he sucked, Sansa’s hand darting from Jon’s shoulder to his hair again, pressing him against her. A satisfied hum resounded from Jon’s mouth up her spine and when she dared open her eyes there was a wicked grin on his face as he looked at her from under her skirts.

“Oh, sweet-“ Sansa mumbled, as he drew tiny loops with his tongue around her bud and something tightened on the back of her neck, something else burning low in her stomach and she just wanted it to end and never stop. “Oh, Jon!”

His hands caressed her hips, holding her in place as he lapped at her. It did nothing to sooth Sansa or distract her from his wicked, blessed mouth on her dripping cunt. She leaned back against the wall, releasing Jon’s hair and almost hitting her mouth too hard with her fist as she tried to muffle a particularly loud whine.

He added more pressure to his tongue, and whatever was building inside her released itself and she forgot everything around them. The cold stone wall on her bottom, the hearth casting soft shadows on Jon’s skin, the cold air making her shiver. She bucked against Jon, losing control over her own body as her muscles quivered under his touch.

Sansa opened her mouth with a silent cry, her mouth dry as a white lights danced before her eyes, a hot wave crashing down her body.

When she finally recovered her conscience Jon was still licking her mercilessly. It was too much now, her flesh too sensitive, so she reached for his dark curls to plead him to stop. She found her skirts instead, and as she opened her eyes seeing Jon’s form under the heavy wool almost made her laugh.

“Jon” she whispered, still under her breath, tapping his shoulder. No answer. “Jon, enough.”

He leaned back, emerging from under her skirt and cleaning his glistening chin with the back of his hand. There was a grin on his face wider than any other she had ever seen him wear.

“Is this-” she started, her face warm again. Perhaps if she hid her face behind her arm it would be easier. “What you just did, I mean. Is this something people… Do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what other people do or don’t do.” he said flatly, raising up and digging his fingers on her now very loose hair. “You don’t like it, then?”

“I- I did, actually. Very much” she added, wishing she hadn’t started that debate. “And you don’t find it gross?”

“No.” He shrugged and then pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “Do you?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

Muffled voices. And steps.

“I’m sorry-“

She covered his mouth with her hand.

Voices again, closer this time.

“Someone’s coming” she warned, pushing him away from her and sliding one of her arms on her sleeve again “Jon, we have to get dressed!”

He helped her tie the laces of her bodice. It was only fair. He had been the one to untie them.

“Or you could just hide your face and then it would be me and someone else, nothing out of order” he mumbled.

“Bring many women here, do you?” she spat before she could really consider the thought. Her heart was hammering her chest as the voices got closer. At least two men. “I don’t want to know, don’t say anything. Also, how many redheadeds taller than you are there in Winterfell?”

“Well, there’s Tormund-“ he tried, smirking, but her dress was almost proper again by now.

“Don’t be silly. What if someone finds us? What are we, Lannisters?” she cut.

Jon opened his mouth and she realised she had said too much again.

“Don’t. Don’t make that joke.” She raised her finger before his face, and then leaned down to pick up her smallclothes and his shirt, shoving the later against his chest. His very naked well sculpt chest.

They could hear the men speaking from the other side of the door.

“There’s no time for this. Come here” he said, pulling her with him to the floor, behind his desk. “Why didn’t you close it?”

“It’s not like I had this all planed, you know?” she scoffed.

The door cringed as the men opened it.

“See? There’s no one here, you fool!” one of them shouted.

“I swear I heard screaming” the other said.

Sansa giggled, and Jon covered her mouth with his hand, his arm wrapping around her waist and pushing her to his lap in the process. She felt something hard poke her bottom, and she didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

“Oh, of course, the ghost of the castle! C’mon, lad, let’s get some sleep. Why did I believe you?”

The door cringed again, and then a thud.

“Jon.”

He groaned in response, his lips on her neck as soon as they had been left alone.

“Does it hurt?”

“What?” he asked.

Sansa rolled her hips against him, and the low grumble that he made answered her question. She turned around in his arms and kissed him. She could taste herself on his lips, sharp, bitter, but not totally unpleasent, her hand finding the bulge on his breeches and giving a tentative stroke.

He jolted, as if she had pinched him.

“Don’t. Please, Sansa” he croaked.

She took her hand away from him, looking down. Ashamed.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not it” he appeased her, tilting her chin up. “Just not here. You’re right, no one can know. Come to my chambers.”

Sansa gulped.

That was another matter. A more serious matter.

“I will be gone in the morning” he whispered, caressing her cheek. “We don’t have to- You don't have to- We can talk, I will sleep on the floor if you want-“

She took a long breath, closing her eyes.

He was right. This night was all they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I keep changing how many chapters are left but I can't stop because jonsa feelings and the show is not doing a great job with appeasing me.  
> As usual, thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Also this is super long because I got a little carried away, too many Jonsa feels because of the last two eps, most of them not good feels, but still...  
> Anyway, sorry for the trash and the angst in general.

There was a soft breeze, a gentle caress of cold air ruffling her hair as they walked perhaps a little too hastily down the corridor. Sansa had missed the cold too much all those years away from home. And the snow, falling smoothly over the courtyard and the glass gardens and the old trees of the godswood. She had spent too long wishing for the sun and short-sleeved dresses when she was little, and yet all she could ever wish for could be found just under her nose.

She had had to grow to it, though. She had had to lose everything to learn to value of what she had always had. To want to reclaim it. To fight for it. Fate hadn’t been kind to her, but it had turned her into the woman she was now. The woman whose heart beat and ached for the man walking beside her. The boy she had tried so hard to despise growing up, just to please her lady mother. To be a good daughter for her.

Mother, father. Robb, Rickon. They were all dead now. Sansa had no one’s expectations but her own to live up to. She would try, she would give her best to become someone she could be proud of in the future.

Starting with shutting all of the alarm bells ringing inside her head.

It was Jon. Jon was kind, and gentle, and good.

As they walked side by side, her heart racing in her chest and her palms sweaty again, she repeated the same prayer in silence. They were brother and sister. Jon was the King in the North and she was the Lady of Winterfell. No one would so much as whisper about them, together, walking down the hall at such a late hour. Jon was leaving the next morning, there were things to plan still.

He was not her brother. Not at all. He might have been Bran, Arya, Robb and Rickon’s brother, but he was never hers. And now he certainly wasn’t. This wasn’t wrong.

No, this was the most righteous choice she could have ever made.

Jon’s fingers brushed absently against hers, as if by accident, and she swallowed hard. How many steps left yet?

But he was her brother, and she could take her brother’s arm as she accompanied him to his chambers to wish him a good night, couldn’t she? Jon nearly jumped out of his skin, his muscles tense under her hand.

Sansa could hear his breath wheezing heavily through his nostrils, the placid rustling of her skirts and their boots on the floor as they marched in silence, Sansa’s sewing basket tucked under her arm so she wouldn’t leave any clue Baelish could find behind them. Her work sitting, forgotten, on the king’s study might denounce a hasted departure and that she wouldn’t allow. He already knew too much.

For a moment, Jon reached for her hand on his arm, squeezing it, and all too soon it was gone again, as they walked at the same pace, almost joined at the hip but not quite. Brother and sister couldn’t be _that_ close. Yet, it amounted to something.

How long, after he came back home, would they have to keep this façade?

No, that was thinking about the future, and that was a dangerous thing. Sansa had to think about now, or the next day. If she wanted to make plans about the next moons they had to revolve around keeping their people safe and fed. Not the delusions of a hopeful silly girl.

Jon shut the door behind him, closing the latch, and then led her by the hand to one of the chairs by the fire. Sansa knew his chambers all too well. They had spent many hours on that same spot, planning and plotting and arguing. Sometimes they laughed too, usually after a couple too many cups of ale. Wine was hard to come across these days.

He took the chair before her, and it was as if they were still discussing if the lords should know the truth about Jon or not. As if nothing had happened between that moment and now. Sansa’s heart sunk in her chest, her throat closed with disappointment.

Jon rubbed his hands together, his eyes more interested on his feet than her.

“Some ale?” he offered, standing up as if something had bit him.

“Yes, please” she said, thinking that perhaps having something between her hands would sooth her nerves.

Why was this so awkward now? Because they both knew where this was going? Because it had been planned and not just some whim triggered by her statement? Something had happened with each step they had taken there. Something had changed.

Jon found the jug on a small table, next to his bed, and it occurred to Sansa that he had intended to drink himself to sleep. She hoped not, although it wouldn’t surprise her. So many things had changed for him. All his life a lie, and the truth was even crueller than anything he might have imagined. The man he had always looked up to, the man he had tried so hard to become, hadn’t been the one to father him. The woman that had loathed him all his life had had no real reason to. There was not a mother somewhere south for him to meet. The seat he dreaded so much wasn’t rightfully his. Sansa couldn’t be sure if those were the thoughts crossing his mind, but they certainly whispered on hers, a sadness wrapping around her chest like an iron chain.

He deserved so much more than what they had. Than what she could offer.

She took the mug from his hand and waited for him to sit back down before taking a sip.

“Better than the one from the Watch” she mumbled, trying to smile.

Jon chuckled, and that released some of the tension at the back of her head.

“Anything here is better than there, I can assure you that” he added, a half-smile as he looked at the fire, taking a sip from his own mug. “Sansa, I-“

She left the ale on the floor, next to her chair. She rested her hands on his knees as she leaned forward and kissed him, interrupting him effectively.

“We have talked enough this past few moons” Sansa declared, licking her lips as they parted, Jon’s eyes still screwed shut, his mouth still parted. He grunted something close enough to an agreement, and soon enough Sansa was on his lap again, their hands tangled on each other’s hair. And that fire, deep down, hidden and unsuccessfully forgotten on a cage of stone and steel roared as it was set free.

Sansa’s tongue explored every corner of Jon’s mouth, and she dared slip a hand under his shirt, his warm flesh quivering to her touch as the hardness under her reminded Sansa of why they were there. She rolled her hips experimentally, her whimper tangling with his groan as she felt the light pressure on her centre, probably soaking his breeches. She didn’t care that her knees were pressed against the wooden arms of the chair and that they would be bruised the next morning, or that she had little room to move. She only cared about him. About them.

Jon dug his fingers on her waist and roughly pushed her away, his eyes wide open now, his nostrils flaring, his chest heaving. Sansa froze, her hands falling to her sides, her eyes probing his for some clue as to what she had done wrong.

“I- It’s…” he tried, his fingers running up and down her sides. “I’m sorry, Sansa. It’s been a while.”

“I don’t care.” She shrugged, and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning forward to kiss him again. She could get used to this. Perhaps she could become just as good as him at this, or at least she dearly hoped so.

He turned his face from her, and she felt her face burn.

“I do” Jon retorted with a broken voice. He took a long breath, and then planted an almost chaste kiss to her forehead. “I don’t want to spill on my breeches like a green boy and waste the only chance I might get.”

Sansa might be as red as the cracking flames warming her back. She considered briefly that it might have been wiser to pay attention to Margery’s babbling about what people did in their intimacy instead of cutting off the subject as soon as she could, like a proper lady would have done. Now she wouldn’t be blushing like the innocent maid they had long made sure she wasn’t.

“Fine” she said, standing up and taking a large gulp from her mug. She needed it to calm herself. To steady her hands. She had found some time ago that when they did that she could prevent the shaking with a little sip of wine. That was why Cersei drank so much. But she was not Cersei and perhaps with ale, instead of wine, a larger amount was needed.

“Sansa.”

“Hmm?”

She looked at him, over her mug. Jon was brooding again.

“You’re nervous.”

“I am not!” she shouted, leaving the ale on the floor and crossing the room towards his bed. She let herself fall down on the furs, giggling as she bounced on the mattress.

Sansa looked at the ceiling, her eyes following the orange and red and black hands dancing over her head. Like cloaked figures. Like spirits of fire and coal. Would they burn her? Would they burn Jon?

The mattress gave in next to her, a warm body just a hair away from hers. She turned her head to him and his nose hit hers, so she kissed him, a hand on his cheek to caress his beard. Since when did she like his beard so much? It didn’t matter, she liked it now, as his whiskers prickled her upper lip and a hand soothed her thigh.

“I am, a little” she confessed, looking at his chest. She couldn’t bear looking at his face. “It will hurt.”

Jon sighed, his hand at her thigh stilling.

“It doesn’t have to. But we don’t have to do this” he blurted out, an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “Do you want me to kiss you again? Or talk? We can talk. Tell me about your day, about your plans for food stocks. You were telling me about it this morning.”

Sansa nestled her head on his chest. She was safe there, safer as she would ever be. And so was he. They were safer, together. Jon and her could take care of themselves, and when that wasn’t enough they took care of each other. She had saved him from the battle and he had offered her Ramsay. She made him clothes and he kept Baelish away from her.

But now Baelish knew, and Winterfell wasn’t safe for Jon anymore. Accidents happened all the time. Even to a king.

“Can you make it painless?” she mumbled, her fingers brushing his chest over his shirt, reaching for the strong pounding of his heart to assure her he wouldn’t disappear if she blinked.

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

“Look, Sansa, I don’t want to force you. I’m no better than them and-“

“I can make my own choices, Jon” she cut him, taking her hand away and playing lazily with the cords of his breeches instead. “Can it be painless, then?”

He took a long breath again.

“It- It can be good. I guess.”

Could it? Could it really? Margaery had said it could, but she had been the only one. Her lady mother and septa Mordane always told her that lying with her lord husband was a lady’s duty and never elaborated on the subject. But what Jon had done to her so far had been pleasant enough. No, ‘pleasant’ was not the right word. It didn’t even begin to describe it.

“All right” Sansa said, unlacing his breeches. It didn’t took him more than moment to stop her. Again.

“No. Not yet” Jon whispered, his strong hand closed around her fist.

Sansa rolled on her back, parting from him and staring at the ceiling again. She had been married twice and she still didn’t know what to do, except for screaming and trying to run away. She didn’t want any of those things now. She wanted him. She wanted him to whisper her name on her ear as he found the same bliss he had gifted her.

“Sansa” he called, rolling to his side and propping himself on his elbow, staring at her, sulking again.

Sansa was starting to lose hope when his hand came to the strings of her bodice. She nodded, placing her hands flat on the furs at her sides.

Jon took his time, undressing her. He slid the string from each eyelet patiently, as if they had all the time in the world when that wasn’t true. But if this- this night- was all they had, she would gladly let him take all the time he needed.

He knelt next to her, and pulled the dress from her arms just like before, Sansa arching her back to help him.

“Did you leave your smallclothes there?” he asked, wide eyed as he slid her dress down her waist.

Sansa blushed furiously, her arms covering her chest as if she could hide her shame that way.

“In the sewing basket” she said, and one of her hands came to her eyes. “With your new jerkin, I’m sorry!”

She heard the fabric rustling, probably to the floor, and then the weight on the bed changed again and Jon was kissing her jaw. Did he just chuckle?

“Aye, so I could take them with me as a favour?”

Sansa uncovered her eyes and he was hovering over her, a wide grin on his face.

She thought briefly about slapping it away, but then she stretched her neck and kissed him instead. She rather preferred that look on his face anyway.

After they parted, Jon took off her boots and peeled down her stockings, finally leaving her bare before him. He stood there, standing up in front of her, his hair tousled, his shirt falling from one shoulder, his breeches hanging precariously from his narrow hips. And he was handsome still. He would be handsome no matter what. He had even looked handsome when he first crossed Winterfell’s gates, covered in mud and filth from the battle.

“Will you come here and kiss me?” she asked, raising herself on her elbows, blatantly unafraid. Or at least she hoped it looked like that.

Jon crawled over her and did as bid more than eagerly, his weight pinning her down to the furs. She heard the bells ringing inside her skull but shut them down as his lips hungrily devoured her mouth, his fingers digging on the soft flesh of her waist as he seemed to have lost all fear from hurting her.

It was Jon.

How she wished they had known it before! That they had had more time to feel something more than shame and longing. That she could spend the next days, the next weeks, the rest of her life learning all the things he could do, all the noises that could come from his mouth, every last detail of his body.

Jon rolled away from Sansa, lying next to her. Before she could protest against his absence his hand closed on her breast and she let her head fall back, gasping softly as his thumb brushed around her nipple and then his lips closed around it. Sansa’s nails scrapped his scalp as she pulled him even more against her, as if she wanted to keep him there forever, her body set aflame again. He stroked her belly with his fingertips, his mouth still on her breast, and she shivered against him. When his hand continued its path down she gulped, imagining what would come after that.

But then he let it wander further down, to her knee, and now Sansa really considered slapping him, if not for his tongue twirling over her breast. He slowly bent her knee and pulled her leg to the side, his fingers drawing a tormenting path up and down her inner thigh.

“Jon” she called him, gently tugging his hair. He looked at her, his lips red and swollen. “We don’t have much time.”

He nodded, and then gently slid a finger inside her, his thumb rubbing that sweet spot between her folds his mouth had found earlier. Sansa threw her head back, unable to feel any shame for the wet noises he made each time he took his finger out and slipped it back in.

“You are so wet, Sansa” he said hoarsely, burying his head on the curve of her neck and brushing his lips against her skin. His voice alone was almost enough to undo her. “That’s good. Am I hurting you?”

“No” Sansa croaked, her own voice strange to her ears.

He added a second finger, and then a third, his thumb circling her nub all the while as that delightful pressure low in her back built up and up until she could only roll her hips against his touch.

“Jon!” she whimpered, as he removed his hand, leaving her breathless and wanting.

“It’s just a moment, I promise, love” he assured her, crawling out of bed.

There it was, that word again. She had been called love ‘before’. And yet when Jon said it it almost sounded as if it meant something. As if it was true. Perhaps it was.

He reached behind his neck and discarded his shirt first. But _he_ had undressed her. Twice now.

“Can I?” Sansa asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and hooking her fingers on the waist of his breeches.

“Please” he agreed, cupping her cheek and kissing her forehead. “Anything, Sansa”

Jon hissed as she slid both his breeches and his smallclothes down, finally realising his erection. Her eyes grew wide and she gulped.

“Sansa, we really don’t- Is something wrong?” Jon mumbled, and Sansa blinked, aware that she had stopped with his breeches at his knees. She blinked again, just to make sure, and with a deep breath resumed her work.

“Nothing’s wrong” she muttered, pulling his breeches all the way down. “Everything’s perfect.”

She had nothing to compare him to. Nor did she wish she had. And even though she was afraid, Jon had promised he wouldn’t hurt her. So he wouldn’t.

He was truly a sight, even though she had never seen a man completely naked before she imagined most of them didn’t even come any closer even to Jon’s shadow. His lean, strong body framed by the golden glow of the fire, his dark curls almost a dark red as he step out of his clothes. His robust thighs, the sharp curve of his bottom, the dark line of hair on his stomach that led to his surely painfully hard cock. She rubbed her slick thighs together, acutely aware of the uncomfortable distance between them.

Jon quirked an eyebrow at her, and Sansa closed her mouth and licked her suddenly dry lips. Why hadn’t they been given more time?

Her fingers reached for his skin tentatively, her eyes fascinated with the lines of his chest. She would gladly spend all night tracing every last detail of his flesh. But she had yet to quench the hunger he had left unsatisfied. And his, just as much as hers.

She intertwined her fingers on his, planting a kiss over his heart before leaning down on the bed again, dragging him down with her. Jon kissed her deeply, his lips driving her just as mad as his fingers had done scarce moments ago.

“I won’t put a babe in you, Sansa. Do you understand me?” he sighed with a broken voice, as if the words burned on his throat.

“I do” she said, stroking his beard, the soft look of his warm dark eyes breaking her heart “For everyone else we are brother and sister, and none of us can have a bastard right now. I will send for some moon tea, don’t you worry about it”

“No. You won’t.” He had said it in a firm tone, the one that didn’t allow any kind of dispute. “I’ve heard what can happen to some women that take it. You have to let me-“

“Pull out. I know.”

She looked him in the eye and gave a short nod, wrapping her legs around his waist, his cock pressing against her inner thigh.

That meant enough for Jon. He knelt back and took his shaft in his hand, aligning the head with her entrance. It was surprisingly warm and smooth for what she had expected just by looking at it. With a slow thrust he gently entered her, inch by inch, their growls tangling together in the air as he did.

Sansa dug her teeth on her lip, panting as she willed herself to relax, Jon’s hands soothing her thighs as he waited for a sign to move. It was odd, the thickness of him stretching her from the inside, the surprising warmth of his flesh on hers. But not painful. Not one bit.

She looked at him, standing between her thighs, his face scrunched and all his body tense as his chest heaved. Sansa reached for his hand and kissed his palm, rolling her hips in search for more of those delicious shivers he could send down her spine.

With a low grunt, more beastly than human, Jon dug his fingers on her hips, slowly pulling out of her, an then in again, leaving Sansa to tug at the furs under her. Jon’s brow was furrowed and a tiny drop of sweat run down his temple, glowing in the firelight, and then along the side of his tense neck.

“Jon” she almost moaned, digging her heel on his bottom, trying to urge him to move. “I’m not made of glass. I won’t shatter, I promise.”

Jon chuckled, and that seemed to be the only thing he needed to know. He sank himself to the hilt deep inside her, a hot wave crawling up her spine as Sansa threw her head back and her vision went black. Then he pulled his cock almost all the way out, thrusting in more vigorously this time, the sharp whimper from Sansa’s mouth contrasting with the low groan that rumbled from his chest and echoed through her whole body.

“Better?” he panted, his fingers clutching her flesh with enough strength to leave a mark. Let him. Let him leave something on her that would remind her of this moment on the lonely days to come.

“Wonderful” she mewled, meeting every single one of his thrusts now, her peak closer with each one as the sounds of his body slamming against hers filled the chamber. Jon’s thumb found her nub again, and in less than a heartbeat it became too much for Sansa to bear, a loud moan escaping her lips before she could cover her mouth, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. She had probably woken all the castle. Maybe she could be heard all the way to the Neck itself. But she couldn’t think of anything besides Jon’s fingers and Jon’s cock on her, her cunt fluttering around him as hot shivers crept along her skin.

She screamed his name, over and over, until her throat almost split in two. And there was a voice, at the back of her mind, that told her she wouldn’t care if anyone found out. The same cruel voice that reminded her how delightful it would be to have him beside her for the rest of their lives.

Jon pulled out of her, and Sansa knew he was close too. She sat up, even though her limbs were still shaking, her breath not completely recovered yet, and she wrapped her hand around his slick and warm shaft. She wasn’t certain about what she should do, but Jon closed his hand around hers, throwing his head back with a howl as she started to pump the way he had showed her. With just a few strokes he spilled himself on the furs next to her and then collapsed on the mattress, panting against the clammy skin of her chest and holding her tight against him.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his back and kissed the top of his head as they both recovered, tears pooling in her eyes as she regained her conscience and realised none of this was enough. That he would be gone in a few hours and only the gods knew when or if he would come back at all.

There was a war out there, both to south and the north. There were too many queens and kings to fight. But that was his duty, just as much as it was hers to stay at Winterfell and look after home.

Their home.

“I love you.”

It was no more than a whisper, fleeting enough to be missed. But the words reached her ears all the same, before Jon crawled under the furs and covered them both. And even if she hadn’t heard him she already knew. It was impossible not to. What astounded her the most was how she had not seen it before. Nothing had changed between them with Bran’s announcement. It had always been there, disguise under siblings’ affection.

“I love you too” she said, nesting her head on the crook of his neck before drifting to sleep.

* * *

 

They didn’t get too much sleep, though. One time Sansa stirred against Jon and he was hard again, so she rode him until they both felt sated. Another Jon had slid his hand between her thighs, not long after the fire from the hearth had completely died out, implying that he was cold in between sloppy kisses that sometimes found her lips and more often did not as she gasped his name with his fingers buried deep in her cunt. The third Sansa somehow had turned around and hooked her leg on his hip. Jon had taken that chance too, the first rays of sun peeking between the heavy curtains.

When Sansa finally got out of his bed, drained and limp limbed, Jon was still snoring softly, laying on his front with his arms wrapped around the pillow, a soft smile on his face. She wobbled to the basin to clean herself and the cold morning hit her skin. She put on her stockings first, afraid that if she let them on the floor perhaps either Jon or her would step on them. Then she stole Jon’s shirt, lying next to them and much easier to put on that her dress, and cursed herself for not finishing Jon’s new jerkin on time.

Sansa took the chair by the window, so she didn’t have to open the curtains too much and risk waking him up. He looked so serene, so happy, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath making Sansa wish none of them had their duties.

She had managed just a couple of stiches before Jon stirred, his naked arm reaching across the furs as he groaned in frustration.

“Good morning” Sansa greeted, unable to hold a wide grin.

“Good morning” he grunted like a petulant boy, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing? Come back in here, it’s too cold.”

Sansa’s laugh almost sounded carefree.

“Jon, love, you have to go” she said, looking down at the jerkin again and trying to resume her work. She would finish in time. It would take less than an hour, as long as no one interrupted her. “Your men will be waiting for you.”

Jon dragged himself out of bed, grumbling in frustration. He went to the basin to wash, and Sansa tried as hard as she could not to stare at him. Again.

She failed miserably, but it wasn’t her fault. He shouldn’t walk around his chamber on that state of undress. It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t kingly. Or king-in-the-north-ly, as he had said. And surely not when she couldn’t just pull him to bed and inside her again, and forget about all the noise on the courtyard below them, or on the hall beyond those walls.

“You will ruin your eyes” Jon warned, after cleaning up his face. Sansa almost chocked. “So much stitching can’t be good.”

He kissed her cheek and then knelt at her feet, toying with the hem of his shirt.

“I will have it finished before you leave” she scoffed, resuming her work.

“You should keep it” he said, his voice still hoarse from sleep, leaning forward to press a kiss to her knee. “The shirt, I mean. After all, you made it and it looks better on you anyway.”

Sansa cupped his cheek and kissed his lips tenderly. No gift from him could have made her any happier. And it smelt like him.

She would miss him. She would miss him so much.

“Just promise me one thing. I know I can’t offer you anything right now” he started, twisting the silk ribbon at her thigh between his fingers. Sansa opened her mouth to disagree. He had already given her so much. “Let me finish. I know right now I can’t be anything more than your brother, and a sham of king. And I will try to find a way to solve this, to do the right thing, to make you happy the right way. But I know I can’t make you wait forever, so just promise me this. Promise me that when I come home I won’t find you married to him.”

Sansa took a long breath. That was a pretty dream to have. A future where they could be together, not hiding from everyone, not pretending they were someone else. But the Knights of the Vale would stay at their side just as long as Baelish willed them to. Surely Jon knew that.

“You won’t, I swear.”

He took her hand, the one holding the needle, and kissed it, as if that sealed some sort of a pact between them.

“But I ask for something in return” Sansa added, a puzzled look on Jon’s face. “Two things, actually. First, you will come back home in one piece. I don’t want to hear anything about you putting yourself in more danger than what is already being required of you. You will return home safe and sound, to me.”

He kissed her hand again.

“I swear I will come back to you” he vowed, his tone just as solemn as when he had said he would protect her. “And you have cloaked me, how could anything bad happen under that sort of protection?”

A shiver run through her spine. Was he aware of the meaning of his words?

“The other?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sansa straightened her back and stuck the needle on the leather, resting her hands on her lap, in the most perfect Lady of Winterfell pose she could manage with his shirt and her stockings and a dishevelled braid.

“That you won’t bend the knee to her. That you won’t sell our home to her.”

A heartbeat passed. Two.

Outside she could hear Davos shouting orders to the men, and the horses neighing impatiently.

Three.

And then Jon’s face lit itself with a wide smile, his eyes almost disappearing as he took both her hands between his and kissed them both.

“I know no queen but the queen in the North.”

Sansa laughed loudly and threw her hands around his neck, knocking him to the floor and covering him with kisses.

They would both be late. They would both be missed.

But all that be damned, if they were to spend so many moons apart.

* * *

Sansa dug her fingers on the wood of the balcony, Bran next to her on his new chair, staring down from the battlements at the bustle on the courtyard. Almost everything was ready now, their small entourage waiting for their king to give the order to leave the castle.

“He will keep both his promises to you.”

She shivered, frightened by her brother’s words.

But of course, he knew everything now. Did he-? No! Sansa pushed that idea from her mind, her face burning at the mere thought that her little brother could have _seen_ how Jon and her and spent the last night.

“He will need you, though. When he comes back” Bran added, in that plain tone he seemed to use now.

“Why?” Sansa asked, her heart pounding in her chest, terrified that something bad could happen to Jon. That that evil queen could hurt him. Or that Baelish’s claws reached further than she was ready to admit.

“I cannot tell you. Some things need to happen and if I tell you they won’t.”

That didn’t help at all.

But if Jon would keep both his promises that meant he would return home to her. Safe and sound.

“I saw other things too” Bran continued, unware of Sansa’s dry throat or heaving chest. “A little girl, with red curls and grey eyes wrapped in a wolf’s pelt.”

Sansa looked down, just in time to see Jon mount his horse, the cloak she had given him on the eve of the battle that had won everything they had now covering his wide shoulders. Her eyes filled with tears as she wished with all her might that he wouldn’t turn back and look at her. She couldn’t bear it. They had said their goodbyes already. A couple of times, just to be certain.

But then Jon did look back, his gloved hand waving them goodbye, the silver ribbon from her stockings just peeking from his sleeve. And as she raised her hand to do the same, a fake smile plastered on her face so the last image he had of her wasn’t a sad one, she could almost hear the sound of her heart shattering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! As usual, thank you so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos... I swear I will try to answer everyone as long as I stop procrastinating. And I'll try to post the next chapter sooner this time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense I had this planned before that scene from hell became canon (though I already knew it would happen). Sorry for taking too long to update. Hope you enjoy!

Sansa had forced herself not to rush down the stairs. She had to play her role. Ladies didn’t run through the castle, and she was the Lady of Winterfell. But Arya was no lady, and as soon as her sister had heard the announcement she had jumped from her seat and rushed to the courtyard. Bran, however, had reached for Sansa’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly. She had to be the Lady of Winterfell. She had to be the King’s sister. Nothing more. Nothing less.

So she couldn’t run to him.

As she calmly paced over the stones her heart hammered her chest, remembering all the pictures she had painted on her mind of this very moment over the last couple of moons. She dreamt it would be just like when he had run to her at Castle Black, his arms crushing her to him, his nose buried in her hair, his beard scratching her cold cheek. 

She had told Arya Jon’s heart would stop when he saw her.

Perhaps that explained what she saw.

Arya, hanging from Jon’s neck while he remained stiff, his gloved fists closed at his sides. Like a frozen statue, not very different from those that inhabited the crypts. Like another ghost, to haunt the castle.

His empty eyes found Sansa’s as she stood on top of the stone steps, a dozen feet away from them, afraid to get any closer and ruin their moment. Then Jon closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Arya’s back, almost automatically, and her sister shrieked with joy. Arya had had a rough upbringing. She had learnt to survive on her own. But there was still something left of the carefree child she had been.

Sansa tried to swallow the lump on her throat and took a few steps towards them, smoothing her blue skirt as she walked. She had dressed in black and grey for a long time, but Jon seemed fond of that particular dress. At least of the ‘wolf bit’.

As Jon and Arya parted, her sister’s arm hooked in Jon’s and a wide grin on her face, Sansa’s hope seemed to have abandoned her. Jon seemed a thousand years older than before, all light gone from his eyes, his skin paler than before, his shoulders swallowed by the wolf pelt of his cloak. As much as she wanted to, it didn’t feel right to just throw herself in his arms, in front of everyone else, just to be rejected.

But she was the Lady of Winterfell, and she knew her place.

“Your grace” she greeted, forcing a gentle curtsy and a smile. She was always very good at both. “We are so happy to have you back at home, safe and sound.”

Although those might not be the right words. How safe and sound was he, really? 

Jon blinked, taking more than a moment to return her politeness. Arya frowned, looking from one to the other, confused. She knew Jon and Sansa had never been close as children, but surely she had heard Sansa claim more than once how she missed him and how she wished he was home. Both sisters hadn’t discussed just how much exactly Sansa missed her cousin. Arya wasn’t ready yet. 

“I am glad to be back, my lady” Jon said, nodding.

Arya shook her head in disbelief. But maybe that sort of reaction from her brother towards her older sister looked more like what she had expected. 

“Can we go inside? Or are you all trying to freeze here?” Arya asked, pulling Jon with her towards the castle. 

Sansa stood there, as they passed through her, her feet stuck to the ground.

What had happened there? What had they done to him?

* * *

 

Ghost was nowhere to be found. As soon as Arya returned perhaps the wolf had sensed his protection was no longer needed, and left the castle to hunt in the woods. 

Jon retired right after he had greeted Bran, saying he was too tired from his journey. Sansa poured Arya a nice cup of ale, and then fixed another to herself, intending to forget about Jon at least until the morning. If he had decided to brood on the privacy of his chambers she would allow him that much. They could talk about the Dragon Queen’s support or the Walkers in the morrow. For now, he could rest. 

Bran raised his eyebrows at her, and Sansa remembered his words. 

He will need you.

So she followed Jon to his chambers, her mouth dry as she stood outside his door. He had asked to be alone. He wanted to be alone. Why couldn’t she respect it?

Sansa raised her hand, hesitantly, and knocked.

A couple of breaths afterwards she heard feet dragging through the floor on the other side. The harsh clanking of the bolts and an eternity later Jon held the door open for her, his face covered in darkness. He had taken off his cloak, his jerkin and his boots already, as if he was about to sleep. Perhaps she should have let him rest. She should have never come here.

Sansa slid through the door and leaned against the wall, waiting for him to say something.

Instead, Jon took a few strides to his bed and sat down, saying nothing. Not even offering her a seat.

“Jon, what-?”

“You broke your promise” he cut, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor.

So he knew. She had hoped he wouldn’t and she could explain the whole thing to him, calmly and using her own words. But then again Jon was king. There were people on the castle more loyal to him than to her. Of course he knew.

Was this the reason he had shut himself in?

“You are home. Do you find me married to him still?” she whispered, pulling her sleeves down over her wrists. The room was too cold, the fire lit just a few moments ago to save some timber. If they had to keep all the North warm for the winter they couldn’t just waste it.

“Don’t play games with me, Sansa” he groaned, closing his fists.

Sansa rolled her eyes. She should have left him alone. Was this why he needed her? To scold her about her choices while he was away?

“I am not. I am just reminding you of what I promised. I’ve kept my word.”

“And you couldn’t find the time to tell me about it?” he roared, making her jump out of her skin. Tears pooled in her eyes.

No. No. She wasn’t afraid anymore. No one could hurt her anymore. Not even Jon. 

“You would have done something stupid if you knew!” she shrieked, tears running down her face against all her best efforts. 

“Aye, I did something stupid anyway!” Jon shouted, standing up and putting as much distance between them as he could, turning his back to Sansa.

The winter winds howled outside the windows, a cold arm crawling under the door and twisting around Sansa’s ankles, climbing towards her heart and smashing it between its fingers.

“What have you done, Jon?” she mumbled, taking a few steps towards him and stopping, fearing the worst. “Jon, what have you done?”

Silence.

Nothing but her hertbeat and the cold. 

“What have you done, Jon?” Sansa cried this time, crashing her tears with her palms. Her teeth clanked against themselves as she run towards him, grabbing his arm and turning him around. “Jon? Jon! What have you done?”

She had expected to find rage. Anger.

Instead there was just sadness and disappointment there. 

“They say he tried to kill you on your wedding night. That he intended to kill Bran and Arya as well and that you had no choice but to defend yourself.” Jon spat, his eyes looking at some point past Sansa’s head.

“Jon…” she pleaded, taking his hand. “What have you done?”

“That was a clever plan, Sansa, I can give you that much” he kept going, coldly ignoring the tears falling down her neck now. “You marry him, and the Knights of the Vale are loyal to you, and then you stick his own dagger to his back, so now you don’t have to be loyal to him anymore.”

“What have you done?” she shouted, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “What have you done, Jon? I kept my promise, I kept everything together for you! For you, no one else! If you still have an army it’s because of me and my clever plan! What have you done, Jon?”

She punched his chest, a dark fury taking control of her, over and over and over, sobbing and wailing like a mad woman. 

She would never forgive him for making her feel guilty about what she had done to survive. He was, she had played the game, and so far she was winning. But for Jon. Only for Jon. So his men wouldn’t turn their backs on him as they intended. 

She would never forgive him. 

He broke.

He crumbled, sagging against Sansa, his face buried in her neck, his arms tight around her waist. And he sobbed. Sobbed like a small babe, a terrified child, a hopeless man.

Sansa stopped hitting him at some point, stumbling to the bed and falling to the mattress with Jon glued to her.

He could have sobbed all through winter, and so could she, covering his beautiful hair with her tears and snot as he did the same to her pretty dress. They never told you about that sort of thing in the songs. Great knights and great princes always came back home to their ladies and covered her faces with kisses, her laps with expensive gifts. Their shared sweet smiles and sweet words. Not bitter cries and accusations.

“I kept- I kept my word. Sansa. I kept my vow to you” he whimpered, his broken voice muffled against the soft wool of her dress.  He was crushing her to the mattress but this time Sansa didn’t care. “I swear. I am- I am home now. And I have- I haven’t bent the knee to her. I- I swear. Sansa.”

Sansa sighed. She should be angry at him. She should spit all kinds of venom at him. She should argue how he’d been unfair to her, accusing her of treachery for marrying Baelish and then killing him. It had been the only way to keep her promise to him while holding the kingdom together.

Instead she kissed the top of his head and stroked his back. Jon was right, at least in part. What she had done was terrible. But so had Baelish, and she had done it for Jon. For them.

And yet, she couldn’t let it go.

“What have you done, Jon?” Sansa whispered, sniffing.

He took a long breath, convulsing over her.

“I kept my word, Sansa. But it came with a price. All man must die and all man must pay, the Red Woman said” he croaked. “I did both, but I kept my word. She wanted me to bend the knee, Sansa. To give her our home so she would keep it safe. Keep  _ you _ safe.”

“But you didn’t give it to her?” she tried to help, her voice firmer and calmer now. However, there was a drum inside her head, pounding without mercy, expecting the worst.

“I kept my word” he repeated, like he was mad and that were the only words he knew. “When we went beyond the wall to get a wight to show Cersei-“

“You did what?” Sansa shrieked, grasping the back of his shirt.

What kind of insanity has possessed him? Why hadn’t Ser Davos, someone she thought sensible enough, talked Jon out of that reckless idea? 

“We caught a wight for Cersei. Dany- Daenerys said that if we could get her on our side then she would help us too. And then your raven telling me about Arya arrived.” Sansa held her breath, terrified of hearing any more of it and too eager to learn the truth at once. “And I had thought perhaps I wouldn’t have to bend the knee to her. But then the Walkers trapped us, and Daenerys lost one of her dragons and even though she gave me her word she would help I knew… I knew nothing would be enough to keep all of you safe. Not that kind of hollow words, anyway. She needed more. We needed more.”

Sansa gulped, but the lump in her throat remained there, the drum pounding and pounding until she couldn’t hear her own thoughts.

“What have you done, Jon?” she asked again, stroking his cheek and forcing him to look at her. His eyes were red and puffy, and so was his face. Deformed. Like he had been beaten until nothing of his former self remained. Where was Jon? Where was  _ her _ Jon? The one that had kissed her tenderly and asked for permission to touch her and called her sweet words?

“Then another raven arrived. ‘Your sister will marry lord Baelish in half a moon’. Nothing more” Jon mumbled, raising his hand to brush a stray curl away from her face. Sansa closed her eyes, leaning towards his touch. That seemed more like him. “I wouldn’t allow it, Sansa. I wouldn’t let you be sold again. But I couldn’t leave her either. Not without bending the knee, and not without losing the aid she had promised.”

The winds wailed again, hissing between the cracks of stone and wood and glass. Like a dozen snakes crawling around them, proudly showing their fangs, their eyes shining with anticipation. Sansa shivered, and Jon rolled to her side, leaving her to freeze on her own as he sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. Was the truth so terrible he couldn't bear to look at her? 

Still, Sansa said nothing. He had been patient to her that night they had said goodbye. She had waited for him moon after moon. She could wait for him a little longer.

“Then Davos said some things. Tyrion said some things” he continued, letting his shoulders fall. “Cersei said she wouldn’t help, then she said she would. But you said that she always finds a way to destroy her enemies, and the North is her enemy. And you were running out of time and you wouldn’t be sold again. Not while there was still some life left in me.”

Sansa sat up, cold sweat running down her back, her head ringing, her stomach twisting around itself. What had he done? What had Jon done? Trying to hunt a wight seemed stupid enough, but that had not been it.

Jon took another long breath and she grabbed his hand. He had asked one thing from Sansa, and she had kept her word. That should be enough for him to forgive her, even though she hadn’t done it the way he expected. Jon had kept his two promises as well. She had to find it in her to forgive him, no matter what terrible thing he had done. So she reached for his hand, and his fingers intertwined in hers almost automatically, as if his muscles had memorized that particular action.

“I considered thinking of you. Perhaps in the dark, in the candlelight, her hair would seem as red as yours” he mumbled, kissing her hand.

Sansa’s heart sunk to her feet, her mouth dry.

She didn’t want to hear about it. She couldn’t stand it. Why did she ask in the first place? 

Another long breath. Then a sob.

“But then I decided I had no right to taint you. To bring even just my memories of you to something that foul” he whispered.

Sansa didn’t need another word from him. She could put all the horrid pieces together. She was no longer that stupid girl.

She wanted to pull her hand from his. To run to her chambers and hide in her bed. She could taste the bile climbing up her throat. And the cold shroud, the cold fingers, enveloping her, clawing at her skin, pulling her hair.

Baelish had hurt Jon, even though he was so far from his reach. And Sansa had been stupid enough, not warning Jon about it. She thought she was protecting him, preventing him from doing something reckless. In the end, she had passed their sentence and swung the sword. It had all been her fault. Everything.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa. I betrayed you. I know I hurt you” he continued, still without turning around and looking at her. “But you had fought so hard for Winterfell. I couldn’t give it to her. It wasn’t mine to give.”

“And you were?” Sansa almost spat, reminding herself in time who was to blame. No one but her.

“I was not. I  _ am _ not” Jon said, kissing her hand again. “But your home is worth more than I am. Than I can ever be. But I am sorry, to have hurt you for nothing.”

And then she realized it was her fault. It was all her fault.  _ She _ had hurt him. She had caused his pain.

Sansa needed air. She needed to breathe. Her lungs were hurting her as she panted louder and faster, her mouth so dry she thought it would break. She put her hand against her chest, gasping harshly, her eyes burning with more uncried tears. She had to leave. She had to get up and leave this room and never look upon Jon’s face ever again.

They had twisted her into something wicked. Despicable. Disgusting. She had wounded the one she loved the most. The one that cared about her the most.

“Sansa” she heard him, far away, as if in a dream. She had to leave. She had to leave. Now. “Sansa, listen! Sansa!”

She had to get up, she had to leave his chambers. She had to go. He couldn’t look at her. She ruined everything. She had ruined them. She had ruined him. She had to go.

“Sansa, love, listen to me!” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders and holding her close.

“You were right Jon!” she screeched. “It is my fault. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. You’re right. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”

Jon cradled her to his chest, gently rocking her in his arms. Sansa closed her eyes, still panting loudly, but this time the tears fell peacefully down her cheeks as she nestled her face on Jon’s shirt.

“Shhh… It’s not your fault, Sansa” he whispered, gently combing her hair with his fingers. “You did what you had to do. I was stupid for not trusting you, not believing you could take care of yourself. And I ruined everything.”

“You did not!” she squealed, sitting up straight and looking him in the eye. She must look terrible, at least twice as terrible as his did. She never looked pretty when she cried, her lord father had always told her that. “You did what you had to do. I am the one to blame, to have asked impossible things of you.”

Jon sighed, and then planted a soft kiss to her forehead, his fingers gently stroking her face. One last sob made her tremble, and then she could just fell calm.

And a horrible headache. 

“And so did you, Sansa. You did what you thought was best. And now he’s gone and the Knights of the Vale are still here” Jon pointed out, resting his forehead against hers.

Sansa sniffed. 

Jon’s lips were so close. And she had missed him so much. All those moons, waiting for him, hearing the lords’ concerns, her sister’s cries for heads, Bran’s strange prophecies. Baelish always buzzing around her.

But Jon was here. And he hadn’t sold their kingdom. And he was alive.

“Did she hurt you?” Sansa asked. Ramsay had hurt her, in more ways than one.

“No, she didn’t. It wasn’t like that” he mumbled, looking to his lap and gulping. He waited before continuing, perhaps trying to find the right words. “She wanted it, and she wanted the North. I traded with her, but I was careful enough not to- She was never aware it was just-“

“A business transaction?” Sansa cut.

Jon nodded.

“I am so sorry, Jon” she said, throwing her arms around him and holding him close.

If she could, she would hold him there forever and nothing bad would ever happen to Jon. He didn’t deserve it.

“Aye, me too. I betrayed you, and all for nothing, for not having enough faith in you” he explained, his voice cracking again.

“You did what you had to do, Jon. Nothing more. Nothing less.” she said, her voice clearer than ever. It was the truth. Sansa knew, deep in her heart, that even though it might hurt her it hurt him more. Even though she might feel jealously, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Love, or even lust, had nothing to do with that sort of thing.

Duty.

Jon had made a vow, and he had kept it. And so had she. In the end, the two of them had been true to their words, even though not in the most pleasant fashion.

And the greatest tragedy of it all was that no one was to blame but themselves. 

“I missed you so much, Jon” Sansa whispered, his beard scratching her face. “Do you think you can forgive me? Deep in your heart, that you can find a way to forgive me?”

He sighed, drawing small circles on her hip, and then pressed a wet kiss to her jaw, making her shiver.

“There is nothing to forgive, Sansa” he said, his tone not allowing a discussion on the matter “And I have missed you too. And our home. Sitting by the hearth with you, with a mug of ale. And Arya and Bran, of course. That is all I could ever wish for.”

“And nothing more?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jon pulled her away from him, his eyes searching her face, his brow furrowed. But she was smiling shyly, as if the dark cloud that hung over them had passed. And now Sansa could feel the heat from the fire around them, the winds quieter outside.

“I- I haven’t thought of-“ he shook his head. “What would make you happy, Sansa?”

She grinned, tucking one of his dark curls behind his ear. He had most of his hair gathered at the back of his head on a bun again, but at least she could see more of his handsome face. Jon closed his eyes, leaning towards her touch and parting his lips. He seemed more peaceful now.

“A kiss, for now” she tried, unsure if he would be ready yet. “If you think that’s something-“

He brushed his lips against hers.

“Anything else?” Jon asked, cupping her cheek. Sansa almost sighed in relief. At least some of her Jon was back.

She gulped, before continuing.

He needed to know. He needed hope, and so did she. There was a war to fight before they found their peace. Together. But for now they both needed this. They needed to know there was something to yearn for. That they would be rewarded by their efforts, by the sacrifices they had made.

“And then Bran said something about a little girl in wolf furs and even though I know this is not the time I guess it would be-“

“Wonderful, in the future. Aye, I think it’s possible” Jon agreed, and there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Does she look like you?”

* * *

He would be gone in the morning, and no one could know.

No one but Bran, and Arya, and Davos, and Brienne, and Sam, and Gilly. They needed witnesses. Someone that could assure everyone else that Jon Snow, Lady Lyanna Stark’s son by an unknown father, had cloaked Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter, before the heart tree. That if Lady Sansa bore a child while the king fought the Walkers it wouldn’t be a bastard, but the heir to Winterfell after Bran had given up his claim.

And that hopefully, when the winter was over and the first leaves sprouted in the trees again, the Dragon Queen would no longer be their concern, in one way or another. 

Jon would be gone in the morning, but at least they could have this night, and hope for all the others they would spend together after the living had defeated the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for this horrible ending. You can blame d&d if you want, or you can blame me, which might be fairer. Please tell me what you think anyway and thank you so much for reading!


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the epilogue and I'm so so so sorry for taking too long to write it, but the time and inspiration were just not there. I hope you enjoy it and don't get too much rotten teeth with this, though there are some sad bits too. Also, a great deal of ships because that's me and I never knew how to chose between stuff I like.  
> Thank you so much for your support!

“Breathe, Lady Brienne! Breathe!” Sansa urged, the knight’s large hand crushing hers, perhaps Ser Jaime’s as well.

“I would rather… face a thousand… wights again, my lady!” Lady Brienne gasped, her face red and sweaty and scrunched as another wave of pain seared through her.

Ser Jaime brushed a sticky strand out of Lady Brienne’s eyes and Sansa smiled sadly. How unfair anything was, that many women in the North did what was considered by many a man’s job, and yet their men couldn’t do what was hers, by nature. How everyone had mocked the tall blond girl all her life when she worked thrice as hard as any boy her age. How she had fought harder than any men alive to earn their well-deserved respect.

Their world wasn’t fair for women or girls. Cersei was right, everywhere they hurt little girls. But now, as the first sprouts of spring popped up timidly on every three and every burrow and she looked at Lady Lyanna and her sister practicing with their swords, and Lady Meera running from one place to the other, making sure they had enough grain for the next moons and that every child was being looked after… Now, Sansa knew there was a new generation of women ready to make the world a safer place, when men before them had failed.

Although most of the merit had to be awarded to the war. With every healthy men- and some women too- away to fight it, the women left behind had the opportunity to prove their worth at being more than broodmares. Ruling, defending their homes, managing their supplies. It would be naïve to think they had done it all by themselves. Many women before them, like Lady Olenna, or her lady mother, had tried to stir the world to a better course. But the world was a different place then. It was a different place now, though some things were still missing.

Lady Brienne’s strangled scream filled the air again, and this time Sansa thought she would break the bones of her hand. She would never be able to sew again.

But she knew it would end before long and then she would forget all the pain. Once Brienne looked upon her babe’s golden hair and chubby face everything would go away. At least it had been like that for her, with little Lyarra, now a wild thing with a mop of fiery curls on top of her head running under everyone's feet, soon to be joined by her little cousin Ned, still a babe at his mother’s breast.

After the war, many had lost their lives.

Those who hadn’t had come back different. Gendry, thinner than a corpse. Dull-eyed and pale-skinned, like Arya. With an eye or a limb missing. Or like Ser Jaime, with a new set of scars. With a permanent limp, like Jon.

For Lady Brienne, it had been a new found sense of frailty. Realising how everything was flimsy and fleeting. She had kept all her vows, did what was right all the time. But she hadn’t lived for herself. Ever. Not even once.

When the Dragon Queen’s army had gone South, to conquer King’s Landing from Cersei, Ser Jaime had bent the knee to Sansa and asked her to keep him in the North. He wouldn’t raise his sword against his own blood, and he would rather stay in Winterfell, protecting Lady Catelyn’s daughters as he had sworn to do. And then Brienne had finally found the courage she displayed so often in battle and had asked him to marry her, without so much as a stutter.

It had been an odd union, both bride and groom wearing full armour as they exchanged their vows on Lady Catelyn’s small sept, both with solemn faces and with _Oathkeeper_ and _Widow’s Wail_ hanging from their hips. Lord Eddard Stark’s _Ice_ reunited at last. A soft breeze had ruffled the witnesses’ hairs, as if the ghosts themselves approved of that marriage.

And after so many deaths the trees bloomed again. Wolf pups howled experimentally in the woods, eager to fill the cold air with their cries. Lambs and calves and chicks running all through the courtyard, cackling and mooing waking everybody up as soon as the soon rose on the horizon. Where men chose to remain silent all around every creature seemed eager to scream, as if spring wasn’t just a promise but more real than the very stones of the castle.

Lyarra hadn’t been born on such a day. No, it had been a cold night, the coldest of all winter, and also one of the last. They said that same night Rhaegel had been shot down by the Night King’s spear, and that was why not even the greatest fire had been enough to keep Sansa warm. The dragon had crushed Jon’s leg, and even though Sam had put every last piece of bone together again the conditions on their camp beyond the Wall, or what remained of it, were far from ideal.

When her husband had arrived home, leaning against his staff and paler than a sheet, the only one capable of stealing a shadow of a smile from him had been his little daughter, sucking on his finger as she slept peacefully in his arms. The princess that was promised, a song of ice in her eyes and fire in her hair. Heir both to her mother’s and her aunt’s throne. A heavy burden hanging over her small head.

But little Lyarra’s greatest power lied on Jon’s easy smile. He had been brooding more often since his return, like everyone back from the end of the world. He woke up in the middle of the night screaming and crying, and sometimes Sansa found him curled up in a ball in the corner of their chambers, hiding behind his blanket, sobbing like he had seen a terrible monster. In truth, he had. He had seen them all, and he had fought them all, and he had returned home. To them. To her, as he had promised. And then Sansa would curl herself around him, and held him to her chest as he did when she had to fight her own demons at night.

Some wounds not even all the love in the world could heal. Only time, and maybe not even that.

But each time he held his daughter in his arms light returned to his eyes, and some of the years weighting upon him since he came back from Dragonstone seemed to leave him for a while.

Another terrible scream and this time Sansa knew her hand was lost for good.

It had been a cold night, only with Maester Wolkan to help Sansa and her maid, Alys, to hold her hand. She had wept all through it, in the most unladylike fashion, wailing for her husband, her sister, Lady Brienne, any of the ones she loved fighting so far away from home. She had thought about her lady mother, helping her brother Robb into this world while her lord father fought a war to the south.

That had been the fate of women like them. Women that stayed behind, holding everything together, sometimes even themselves, while the ones they loved fought their wars. Knitting by the fire, rationing food, keeping the children safe. And then stroking their soldiers’ backs when they woke up screaming, dreaming about all the horrors they had seen. Enduring their stern silent faces, their hollow eyes.

Arya had come to her a couple of days after their return, her skin grey as ash, her eyes red. Asking about how could a woman know if she had a babe in her. Sansa had wrapped her arms around her sister and screeched with joy, covering her face with kisses as Arya laughed like a mad woman. Jon had slapped Gendry’s back so hard he had almost broken the poor boy’s now slender body in half. Gendry had cloaked Arya in the Baratheon colours, finally joining both houses as King Robert would have wished, and ensuring little Ned wasn’t born a bastard like his father and his uncle had been.

Stone by stone, they were trying to correct all the mistakes done in the past. But maybe there were too many, and they were too weak. But the gods, if there were any, knew they were giving their best.

Soon enough Lady Brienne cried one last time, Ser Jaime wiped her forehead one last time, and a purple babe came screaming like a true warrior in the midst of battle cries. Sansa had never seen such a wide grin on her sworn shield’s face as she held her new-born girl, a red chubby thing screaming inconsolably, her hands twisting wildly in the air until Brienne held the babe to her breast.

Sansa cleaned the tears in her eyes and squeezed lady Brienne’s hand, mumbling a goodbye.

This was their moment, not hers.

“Lady Sansa, please” Ser Jaime called in the softest voice Sansa could have imagined coming from his throat. “We would like to ask your permission on something.”

Sansa turned around, frowning. She hadn’t frowned very often before, but then again sharing her life with a man who did would eventually lead to that.

“Anything, Ser Jaime. Anything you two- three now!- might need” she assured him, nodding.

Ser Jaime looked at his new-born daughter. Then at his wife. Lady Brienne gave a short nod, her knight’s façade back on. Ser Jaime nodded in return, and then his eyes were on Sansa again.

“We would like to name her after your lady mother, my lady. If you wouldn’t mind. Of course we’ll need to ask Lady Arya and Lord Bran as well, but we would like to have your permission first.”

The baby shrieked again, and Brienne giggled softly as she switched her from one breast to the other. Maester Wolkan clanked his countless trinkets as he stored them safely in their boxes after cleaning them properly. There were shouts and laughter outside, as usual.

But Sansa stood there, dumbfounded, unable to move a single muscle from her body. And then her cheeks were wet.

Her lady mother deserved it. Arya had had a boy and wasn’t too keen on having any more children in the near future. Ned had given them much joy, but being pregnant didn’t agree with Arya’s activities. As far as the maester had implied once, Bran wouldn’t be able to father any children. That left Sansa. But even though she and Jon wanted more children –he had gone as far as describing it as “a pack” and making her open her eyes so wide Sansa thought they would jump from their orbits- she would never impose the name of the woman that had loathed him as a child on one of his children. Sansa had wept, looking upon little Lyarra’s auburn hair and realizing she could never name her Catelyn, though in her heart she saw so many of her lady mother on her daughter.

At least now her name wouldn’t be forgotten, and surely neither Arya nor Bran would oppose the idea. And it was only fitting. Her lady mother had brought Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne together. That their firstborn bore her name was quite fitting.

Sansa finally regained some control over her muscles, running to Lady Brienne and hooking an arm around her neck and another around Ser Jaime’s shoulder, almost crushing the little one in her tight embrace.

* * *

 

The sun shone brightly above the canopy of red-leafed trees, its rays painting their faces with every hue of red and orange and gold there was. A pleasant breeze ruffled the clothes and the table cloths as laughter echoed through the woods. The splash of water interrupted them occasionally, and sometimes screams of yet another child, tossed unceremoniously to the pond.

With her grey skirts hiked up to her knees, Arya watched them, a small smile on her lips as her feet rolled in the water to the rhythm of an imaginary song. Gendry came sitting next to her, passing her a mug of ale as he curled is now stronger arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head.

“It’s so strange, seeing them like that” Jon mumbled, taking a sip from his wine. Arbor gold, a gift from Lord Tyrion, Hand of the Queen.

Sansa laughed, leaning against her husband’s shoulder.

“You know she could say the same about us, don’t you?” she said, raising her hand to stroke his beard. They weren’t alone. In fact, all their court feasted around them, but it had stopped mattering a long time ago. Many things had lost their meaning with the last snows of winter. A man and a woman loving each other when they were king and queen, for example.

At least the dragon queen had allowed them that much, when she took her iron sit with a terrible sadness in her eyes, perhaps finally savouring the bitter taste of conquest through force. In the end, you can never know who your true allies are. Who truly loves you. Some of it had been Jon’s fault, but that was a thought too sour now to linger on. Wartime required terrible sacrifices from everyone. That had been theirs. And if Sansa looked around her, to their people well fed and safe, to Lyarra and Robb running with Ghost, Ned and Catelyn and other children she couldn’t name around the heart tree, she knew it had been more than worth it.

“Oh, she has said it enough, don’t you agree?” Jon scoffed, nuzzling Sansa’s hair with his nose as his hand went to her hip. “She even threatened to kill me if I ever broke your heart at least a dozen of times!”

Sansa covered her mouth this time, trying to conceal her giggles. Her lord father would be proud, knowing they had finally learnt to live with each other. They may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flew through both their hearts. And they had needed each other, more than once.

“I’m sorry, but I guess she will do it again, dear. At least as soon as she finds out, and I plan to tell her soon enough. She’s my only sister, after all.” Sansa whispered, her hand now over Jon’s heart, fluttering in his chest.

He pushed her away gently, raising his eyebrows.

“Again?” he screeched, his eyes glossy and a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“What’s that surprised look? It tends to happen if you share a bed with your wife and spend your time between her legs more often than not” she teased, lowering her voice so only him could hear her.

Jon crushed his lips against hers, burying his hand on her hair as he pulled her against his chest, and Sansa prayed that everyone else was too distracted to notice yet another slip on the protocol.

But in the end it didn’t matter, like many other things. After so many challenges, after losing so many people they loved, it felt good to have a big family around them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, now I swear it was it. Sorry if Dany got hurt in this one, but there's always some collateral damage in a story, I guess. And I'm particularly sorry if I didn't do justice to Gendrya or Braime, but I'm not used to this pairings. Yet (maybe, maybe)  
> Also, I'm thinking about writing a modern AU (more like I have at least 3000 words already), anyone interest on that?  
> As usual, thank you so so so so so much for taking your time to read this! You mean a lot to me <3


End file.
